


you and me (and the devil makes three)

by aronnaxs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (in a kind of messed up way), Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24580204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: When the oppression of the camp becomes too much, Tozer goes to Hickey because he has no one else to go to. Hickey has his own way of looking after his sergeant.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	you and me (and the devil makes three)

**Author's Note:**

> so I somehow fell in love with the Hickey/Tozer ship, and couldn’t get this idea out of my head... 
> 
> Although I’ve started others, this is my first posted shippy Terror fanfic and considering how divine the fanfics of this fandom are, I’m kinda nervous butttt I hope you enjoy :)

When the oppression of the camp becomes too much, Tozer goes to Hickey because he has no one else to go to. He ducks into his tent to find him sleeping upon the cot. Whether that makes it easier, he’s not sure. But he climbs upon the rickety frame, and lays silently at his side. Breathing as evenly as he can, he looks up at the canvas, shivering slightly in the wind. Beyond, men’s boots crunch on the shale, distant, hushed conversations; in here, it is heavy and quiet and still.

The bed is just large enough for one. Tozer is forced into nearness with the other man. He crosses his arms about his chest, as if to deny it. He doesn’t know precisely why he is here - so far gone, the reasons are multiple and meaningless, easier not to wonder about. With Hickey, it is simpler to follow, and pretend some measure of autonomy.

Hickey shifts, turning into the presence of a warm body, and lays his head upon Tozer’s shoulder. For a moment, he thinks he is still asleep, before feeling those soulful eyes boring into him. He stares ahead as searching fingers wind up about his chin, tangling in his beard, deft and insistent. “Cornelius, I -“ he starts lamely.

“Ssh,” Hickey coos, as if speaking to a frightened animal. Reaching inside of him, loosening his needs so he can play with them, he shifts to cradle Tozer’s head. He is in a perfect position to snap his neck if he wants; perhaps it is a kinder fate than what waits for them on the ice. But Hickey smooths back his sweat-damp curls and kisses his brow. “Ssh,” he whispers again, and grants him another kiss upon the reddened, wind-bitten nose.

Emotions, indeterminate, rise in Tozer. He should not need to be held, but he does, and he allows it. As if he has a choice. Hickey’s arms close about him, pressing him tightly against his body so that his face is against his chest. He takes a shuddering breath, and is not surprised when it comes out again as a sob. There is something so out-of-body in weeping before Hickey, like a confession, or a diagnosis from a surgeon. It is simply part of their transaction. Hickey has taken apart them all, and expects to be left with the core of raw feeling within. Isn’t it easier to control a man when he is stripped away to nothing?

He cries until Hickey’s shirt is surely soaked. Hickey pets his tangled hair, and simpers, “oh, ssh, come now,” as if he is a child to be soothed.

It hasn’t helped him. He rubs at his eyes to scrub the unshed tears away. They still fall as Hickey caresses his thumbs over the deep sockets, the harsh line of his cheekbone. “Hush now,” he soothes. How easy it is for him to say. Tozer is tired, and sick of running, and he is scared. He has seen friends and brothers fall, has trekked across the ice, every weary footstep imprinted in his bones. It has not been so long since he stood with his neck in a noose, the fatal break only delayed by that... creature. He had stood and stared as it had, it had _consumed_ Collins from the inside out.

And yet Hickey still tilts his head, like a dog waiting for a reward, and smiles. He presses his chapped mouth to the dampness on his cheeks, all the while rubbing circles on his arm and back. Cornelius Hickey is a prickly, treacherous son-of-a-bitch but he can be gentle when it suits him, and Tozer’s exhausted body keens at the touch.

He tugs his - Irving’s - coat about them, not quite covering the chill at Tozer’s back. Tozer chooses, again, to ignore the blade-shaped holes in the coat’s fabric. As Hickey flatters him with his whispers, he wonders if he will end as Hickey’s playthings have before. When he tires of this game, will he discard him like Gibson and have Dr. Goodsir cut him up?

Stupid to feel envy for someone who is now in their stomachs.

“What’re these tears for, sergeant?” Hickey asks, perfectly innocent. “You are a Royal Marine, hm? I heard you all that time ago... First in line, first cut down. No griping, no sobbing.” He kisses a damp trail down his cheek. The man he speaks about seems a ghost now, brazen and bold before the terror had taken hold. “You came to my tent, sergeant. Don’t expect me to let you weep like a bloody woman. What is it,” he asks, “are you frightened?”

Tozer sniffs.

“Why? Don’t you know I will take care of you?” Another sweet smile, and his fingers cupping his chin.

“As you took care of Gibson?”

That smile does not fade. “I shall show you how I can take care of you.”

His lips brush his, a mere whisper of a touch, but one that he knows, _knows_ , will pull Tozer to him on a puppet string. His poor body, starved of touch and shelter, responds. Hickey’s lithe little form wraps up about him, a leg hooking over his waist to bring them flush together. Tozer’s arms, crossed about his chest, come to encircle him, wondering how, just how, he can be so warm and held-together now. The bastard smirks even as he takes his fill of Tozer’s mouth, fingers tangling in the mass of his unkempt curls.

How many men has Hickey seduced like this, offering himself as comfort and heat and pleasure? His caressing, elegant hands; his questing, devilish tongue; the hard press and stroke of his prick. In this land of deprivation, he promises them plenty, plenty, plenty - the most base and primal and shameful kind of survival.

Tozer allows himself to be turned over. Hickey lays cupped against his back like a spoon, hips nestled into his behind. He splits his legs with a thigh and his mouth with another kiss. Hot breath, a brand, burns his ice-raw skin. This close, with one body melding into the other, they are encased in Lieutenant Irving’s ruined coat. Now, Hickey makes deep wounds on Tozer himself. Touches that have him as weak as a maiden, heart in a vice.

Hickey rolls his hips, slow and torturous, up against him, a mockery of the forbidden. Tozer bites his tongue and turns his face into the scratchy sheet, but cannot help a wretched moan as Hickey’s hand presses brazenly between his legs. “-take care of you, Solomon,” he catches, low and wet.

There are too many clothes in the way. Hickey is in no rush to remove them, rubbing thigh and palm up against him. Kisses, marred with affection, rain down upon his neck and cheek. This is a distraction from what Tozer truly wants to say to him, but it is hard to think of anything more than Hickey’s tongue in his ear and his hand stroking him through his trousers.

The man is surprisingly strong, and he keeps one arm looped about his chest. Surely he can feel the hammering of his heart. That, he thinks, is what that cruel smirk is for. “-want me to take you apart, Sol? Want me to use my mouth next time?”

Tozer squeezes his eyes shut at that image. Wordless, he reaches to grasp his hair and beckon another kiss, but Hickey shakes him off and holds him down. Heat burns, low and deep, more as Hickey plucks open his buttons and sinks his hand inside his fly. “Cornelius,” he sighs brokenly.

“Mm?”

He works him with a smug confidence, pressing his thigh up hard at every stroke; the pleasure is constant and _excruciating_ after so long. He is dampening Hickey’s fingers, aching, unable to keep still. He thrusts forward into his fist and back into his groin. Gasps, as if he has been punctured, escape him, having to be muffled in the thin pillow. It is just canvas against the rest of the camp. He wants more, wants to be safe and still, wants to be home, wants Hickey in his own bed. All he has to take is this secret, quick frigging beneath a dead man’s coat.

Hickey tightens his grip, twisting his wrist, and Tozer’s vision is going blurry at the edges. “Cornelius,” he says again dumbly.

“Got you, my dearest,” he lies.

My dearest, my dearest, he keeps repeating, knowing that that quiet affection will keep Tozer coming back for more and more and more. Who else but Hickey can give him this? He chokes out a moan and jerks his hips into his hand - fingers curling about those clawed into his chest as the fog clouds his head. “Want more next time?“ Hickey whispers, as a promise. “Want me inside of you? Want me to make you forget everything? Want to fuck _me_?”

He comes in an instant, ruined by a paroxysm that rakes him from head to foot. Hickey puts a hand over his mouth while his other works him through the waves. He doesn’t leave off until the sensitivity is almost painful.

“Good boy,” he whispers. He almost sounds genuine, even as he wipes his hand carelessly on the inside of Tozer’s linens. Tozer basks in the mindless afterglow of crisis for as long as he can.

When he turns to rest his head on Hickey’s chest, he is not sure if he will allow it. But he settles, winds his fingers in Tozer’s hair and strokes. Tozer feels he should repay the favour, but Hickey waves him off. “Ssh,” he croons again.

The numbness begins to vanish as he lays there in silence. Once more, the chill sets in. Once more, the outside world threatens at the edges. Once more, he remembers where they are, and who they are. And yet he still stays.

He stays until Hickey bids him to leave.


End file.
